I think it was Kinky Friedman, novelist, musician, and self-styled sleuth, who said that no one can be smugger than a writer who has just written. If it’s not the Kinkster who said that, then somebody else surely did, and let me just say that I totally dig that twisted little wisdom.

Fact is, I am feeling smug today, Palm fucking Sunday.

And that’s because over the course of my weekend, Friday and Saturday, I was able to write something other than a blog entry or some rant in my private journal.

I actually started writing fiction again, which is after all my first love.

It’s this story I owe a friend, who promised a hand in getting it published within the year. “You’ll have your next bestseller soon,” was what she said.

Like, wow.

Charmaine, my most vicious critic, had seen the prologue and the first few paragraphs of the first chapter, and said they’re okay. She has some questions though, but they’re nothing some minor tweakings can’t thresh out.

Indeed, the muse is with me. And I will plunge into that story again first thing in the morning tomorrow. Updates to follow if I feel like it.

The plan was to put all my lurid thoughts on paper, submit it, get the check, get drunk somewhere, and get on with my life.

There were no delusions of book signings, Sunday Inquirer interviews, Palanca awards, all that glittery jazz.

My only wish was to avoid CBCP’s radar. Bishops and I don’t go along well.

When the book got published (by Literotika, with distribution by Anvil), I thought that was the end of it.

Although I had fun writing it, late nights while bombed on Gran Matador, I never thought it would be something. Frankly, I never thought I’d still hear about it years later.

My mistake. Somebody should’ve reminded me that sex sells.

I’ve read reviews about the book, both profound and, well, not so profound. I’ve met people in Friendster and Multiply because of it. A “fan” even sent me semi-naked photos of herself. (Charmaine saw these and, understandably so, went ballistic.)

What can I say? It was weird, it was wild, it was fun. Me being a whore. And now I’m hungry for a repeat.

“This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation.

“Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine.

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”

In college my friend Dennis and I were too engrossed with a lot of “underground” comics that one day we decided to put up our own. Because we were a pair of shiny happy people back then, we called our oeuvre “Madness: Tales of Mental Decay.”

The setup was for me to deal with the story, letters, and whining; Dennis with the illustrations, promotion, and bad jokes. It was a pair-up from hell.

Our idea was to come up with a series of stories dealing about love lost, depression, alienation, moral bankruptcy, and other sweet, inspiring Reader’s Digest stuff like that.

We were able to crank out an issue, earned a little from it, got praised by girls (our target readers), but that was it. Dennis and I graduated, married our respective girlfriends, and simply lost time for such creative collaboration.

Plans have been underway for a second issue, but nothing seems to get past the drawing board, as Dennis and I are both adjusting to that bright and wonderful world called fatherhood. (It’s pretty difficult to write about a man offing himself in the most hideous manner when your bundle of joy is smiling beside you.)

Anyway, to re-live old glory, Dennis posted the whole thing here, with his take on how the project came to be and how we became gods for a couple of days here. (You have to have a Multiply account to see them.)

Looking back, the story is kind of juvenile — we were college dudes back then anyway, single and fucking bitter about it — but I’m still proud of this one.